


A Gentle Kind of Aching

by hideyourfires



Series: A Love like Religion [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, It's just real soft, Slow Burn, i guess?, like slow burn smut, the softest porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 13:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11829615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyourfires/pseuds/hideyourfires
Summary: Cullen is no stranger to armour, knows its intricacies – but this is not undressing. This is a prayer, a gentle kind of aching in a candle-lit room. Off with the squared shoulders, the metal breast. With desperate fingers he breaks away the pieces that hold her fragile form together.





	A Gentle Kind of Aching

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to Hozier - Work Song while reading this for the full experience.

Armour first. The outer shell; harsh edges and cold metal. This is what everyone sees, the image emblazoned on bright pieces of glass and immortalised in song. Hair like fire, eyes flecked with gold, glinting sword in hand and glowing light in the other. War-born and righteous, a martyr in the flesh. She is the icy bite of holy waters, crystalline purity itself.

Cullen is no stranger to armour, knows its intricacies – but this is not undressing. This is a prayer, a gentle kind of aching in a candle-lit room. Off with the squared shoulders, the metal breast. With desperate fingers he breaks away the pieces that hold her fragile form together.

Beneath is leather. It’s aged, strong yet soft, a warm shade of brown. Loyal, dependable. Worn but unyielding. He unbuckles it gently, slowly, relieving her of its weight.

Then, cotton and wool. For warmth and comfort, because it is easy, because it works, because it’s just the same as everyone else. It’s bulky, fit for function, but hiding every part of her that makes her flesh, makes her a woman rather than a suit of armour bestowed with divine purpose.

Silk. Softer still. A reminder of her birth, of the cushioned confines of her childhood. Beneath the knight is a young lady, lovely and honey-tongued, honey-lipped, honey-blooded, and beneath that – beneath that is a girl made of porcelain, her heart a small bird fluttering in her chest.

Blood. Dirt. Grime. Sweat. A faded splatter beneath her earlobe. Under her fingernails. In places her armour doesn’t cover but the rain cannot reach. Every part of her after an arduous battle. This is a body. This is human. This is alive.

Flesh. Soft, heart-breakingly soft. The pale hairs on her arms, the fine dusting of freckles on her face and shoulders, the faintest scar that arcs through her eye. She is peaches and cream, milk white in places, and in others – in others she is pink. He aches for all of her, of course he does, beyond flesh – but those parts are his favourites. They seem to be her favourites, too, and she lets out a muffled sigh when he presses his lips to them. He peppers her with the gentlest kisses, and she curls her fingers into his hair. Entangled and tugging, flesh against flesh. His lips. Her lips, at the base of her neck, where delicate collarbone met delicate shoulder. Lower, softer, more tender. Lower still.

It feels like sacrilege. It feels like heaven. Maker, don’t let her break beneath his clumsy hands. Maker, oh maker, let her melt.


End file.
